


kiss or kill

by infinitefire



Series: moments [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, First Date, Horny idiots, Implied Sexual Content, Modern AU, Morning After, the risk calanthe took was calculated but man is she bad at math
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25420810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinitefire/pseuds/infinitefire
Summary: Calanthe and Eist go out on their first date. Calanthe fully expects it to be the last. (Spoiler alert: it's not.)
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Series: moments [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1841272
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	kiss or kill

**Author's Note:**

> OK SO this is set in the same au as [for a moment we were able to be still](/works/25295056) and takes place a little more than two years before that one. i'm making this au a series but each fic can stand alone, and they can be read in any order. i'm also marking the series as complete even though i will probably write more because it's not exactly incomplete, it just... has the potential for more content...... also having things marked as incomplete is stressful asdlkjsg
> 
> anyway it’s past 1am and i haven't really edited this so like. i am sorry for inconsistencies, mistakes, things that are just weird, etc. also i love you. also can you believe i came up with an actual title that's not just a song lyric?

_ “I don’t want to hear it, Mr. Tuirseach,” she snapped into the phone. “I’m not changing my mind.” _

_ “I know. I called to let you know that I’ve found other investors.” _

_ “Oh, good. I hope this means you can stop bothering me now. Have a—” _

_ “I also called to ask you something, if I may.” _

_ Calanthe’s irritated sigh was loud enough to be heard over the phone. “What?” _

_ “Would you like to go out to dinner with me sometime, on a date?” _

_ She was absolutely furious, at being interrupted and at the audacity he had, asking her that—the answer should have been a definitive no, without question. _

_ But he was attractive. Annoyingly so. And he was… not entirely unbearable. He could keep up with her in an argument, actually responded to the things she said, didn’t rely on being able to interrupt her or speak louder than her, was never impolite if he could avoid it. _

_ “... Dinner,” she repeated. _

_ “Yes,” came his voice in reply. _

_ She considered his offer. At worst, it would be a free meal. At best, a night of hate sex. Nothing more than that. _

_ Fuck it, she decided. _

_ “Alright,” she said. “After all the trouble you’ve put me through, I think that’s the least you owe me.” _

* * *

Calanthe is running late. There’s some work that takes much longer than expected, so she decides not to take the time to fully get changed, instead simply removing her suit jacket and letting her hair down from its usual bun. It saves some time, but she still ends up arriving at the restaurant a few minutes late, at which point Eist is already there, waiting. When he sees her, he smiles softly, warmly, almost in awe of her.

She feels the slightest flicker of panic. It’s just on the edge of being too soft, the way he looks at her, and she doesn’t want this to be any more romantic than strictly necessary, not this soon—

But it is… nice, being looked at that way.

Her warring instincts between trying to seem distracted or indifferent and looking back at him perhaps not softly, but with just as much warmth, find a compromise in casual teasing.

“Scandalized by the sight of my bare arms?”

(The top she’s wearing just barely covers her shoulders, but other than her arms, it doesn’t expose anything more than she normally would in a professional setting.)

(And she absolutely succeeds in making sure her tone doesn’t sound flirtatious at all. There is no hint of flirtation in her voice. None whatsoever.)

He shakes his head. “You look beautiful,” he says seriously. The seriousness melts away just enough of the softness in his eyes.

A faint smile plays at her lips. “Do try to behave yourself for the evening. Else I’ll end up having to take you out.”

“Take me out on another date? I thought you only agreed to this one for the free food.”

“I did. I mean take you out as in go through with one of the stunningly creative plans I have formulated in my head for situations where I need to dispose of a man without leaving around evidence or suspicion.”

His amused smile almost takes her by surprise. Almost. “Sounds like a memorable second date.”

“You won’t remember anything when you’re dead.”

“‘When’? So it’s an inevitability now?”

“Death has always been an inevitability. I dared to hope you had the common sense to know that.”

“I do. I meant you taking me out on a second date, in both senses of the phrase.”

“Hmm.” Calanthe pretends to consider this for a moment. “You know,” she teases, “I’m not entirely convinced you’re worth the effort of taking out in both ways. One or the other. Not both.”

“Shame,” he replies, openly smirking, a hint of laughter coloring his voice. “I was looking forward to an exclusive experience. To be one of the lucky few privileged enough to know the sinister genius plans concocted in your brilliant mind.”

_ Well, fuck.  _ She’s threatening to kill him (albeit not seriously), and he’s… flirting with her. He’s clearly joking about looking forward to his own murder—and maybe it was a trick of the dim restaurant lighting, but his eyes lit up when he said “your brilliant mind,” and she can’t deny the thrill that runs through her at the compliment.

She snorts and rolls her eyes. “I assure you, you’d be dead for the best parts. And for the rest of it, you would be in far too much pain to truly appreciate my brilliance.”

He laughs fully at that. It startles her how much she enjoys the sound, the spark of delight she feels at having caused it. She smiles.

“So,” says Eist, eyes still shining with laughter, “if not both, which way will you be taking me out?” He leans in a bit. “Do I get a date or death?” A smirk. His eyes darken. “Do you want to kiss me or kill me?”

Gods above, this was not supposed to be so much fun. The date has barely started and Calanthe is already enjoying herself far too much.

“Murder is more likely,” she says, feigning indifference. Then, fatefully, she throws in, “Unless you can manage to thoroughly seduce me.”

Eist raises his brow. “Is that a promise?” His tone is still somewhat playful, but now carries an edge of possibility.

“A wager.”

“You’re saying that if I seduce you, you’ll take me out in the date sense, and if not, you get to take me out in the murder sense?”

He’s no longer smiling. His gaze is heated. There’s a flicker of doubt in her mind whether they’re still joking around. The seduction part is no longer a joke, that much is clear. And she isn’t certain she’s prepared for such high stakes as a second date.

Calanthe nods. It’s a dare.

“Deal,” he says, the corner of his mouth curling upwards into a smirk, and her breath nearly catches in her throat at his low, quiet tone. 

For a moment, she wonders if perhaps this was a mistake. His attempts to seduce her can’t have properly started yet, and she’s already affected. But it’s too late. The deal is made. And Calanthe has never been one to back down from a challenge.

“One question,” Eist remarks. “At what point do I know I’ve succeeded in seducing you?”

The truth is, he’s already succeeding. Her imagination is already going wild with thoughts of all the things they could be doing if only they weren’t in public. But she refuses to admit to that, and she’ll continue refusing to admit to that until she’s wrung out every last grain of truth from the sentiment that she could resist him, until she’s wrung out every last bit of pleasure from both their bodies or he’s reduced her to begging. And she doesn’t plan to let that happen.

Calanthe gives him a sly smile. “If you do manage to thoroughly seduce me, I won’t be able to deny it.”

It’s highly unlikely that he will, she thinks. Even if she does find him attractive—she’ll admit to herself that much—Calanthe knows her own stubbornness, and she doubts he’ll be able to get her to the point where arousal trumps stubbornness and she can’t resist crawling into bed with him. She wouldn’t have minded the date ending that way, really, but now she’s made a deal and she has a point to prove. (To him or to herself, she isn’t sure.)

The evening will be an exercise in resisting temptation, she decides. She’ll enjoy making sure it’s just as sexually frustrating for him as it is for her, take comfort in that knowledge once she’s back in her own bed and blissfully alone. And when they part ways, she’ll graciously back out of murdering him. Purely because she has no desire in her heart to become a cold-blooded killer, of course, she’ll tell him, though the more compelling reason is that she can’t put herself in any risk of going to prison for first-degree murder when she has a daughter to take care of, especially when she only has superficial reasons for wanting to commit said murder in the first place.

Yes, this will be fun. It’ll be a game, of sorts. And Calanthe has no doubt in her mind that she will win.

* * *

The night ends with them in his bed, sweaty, panting heavily, limbs entangled, thoroughly fucked. She barely has it in her to extract herself from him and go to the bathroom to clean up. When she emerges, she almost fears her legs will give out before she makes it back to the bed.

“You’re welcome to stay, if you’d like,” he mutters, eyes still closed.

“You know, normally, I would leave, but—” she collapses back onto the bed beside him—“I don’t think I have the strength left to move that far.”

She looks over at him to see a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, don’t look so smug about it. I already had an exhausting day.” It’s only half true.

Eist manages to reach down to the edge of the bed and pull the covers up over them, but beyond a few tired grunts, neither of them has the energy for any more conversation, and they quickly fall asleep.

* * *

When Eist wakes up, he feels somewhat colder than usual. 

Despite the fact that it’s the middle of summer, the nights aren’t always that warm, most Cintrian buildings are designed to keep the heat out rather than in, and generally speaking, falling asleep without any clothes  _ or  _ blankets will have the effect of waking up chilly.

Looking to his side, Eist sees that Calanthe has managed to hog the entire comforter, although she’s currently only half covered by it; her limbs are all over the place, her hair even more so. It’s a sight to behold. She’s beautiful, and adorable (though he’d never tell her so, for fear of being stabbed), and Eist can’t help but laugh a little.

“What are you laughing at,” grumbles Calanthe, apparently awake, not bothering to turn and look in his direction.

“You seem to be in possession of all the covers,” he says gently.

“Mm,” is her very articulate reply.

“Would you like some breakfast?”

“That’d be nice,” she mumbles.

He rolls out of bed and pulls on a pair of pants before heading towards the kitchen. “Come out whenever you’re ready,” he calls over his shoulder, closing the door to the bedroom as he leaves to give her some privacy and space to think. As beautiful and adorable as he finds her in her current state, he has a feeling she could use the chance to privately gather her bearings after last night. (He could use a minute alone to process things himself, to tell the truth.)

From the other side of the door, she gives a sleepy, incoherent grumble of acknowledgement. Eist smiles to himself.

“Oh, fuck,” Calanthe whispers to herself under her breath as soon as she hears the sound of his retreating footsteps.

She did not intend to do this.

Well, she did, at first, or at least she was favorably considering it, but then she made that bet, and after that she specifically intended  _ not _ to do this, and then… well.

Now she has to face the consequences of her actions. Usually, that would just mean a bit of morning-after awkwardness. Which would be fine. But this time, facing the consequences of her actions means facing the possibility of a second date.

She could just tell him she was joking about the whole thing. He’d understand; would probably make some remark about being relieved that she never really intended to kill him, half a smile on his lips, just to lighten the mood and reassure her that that was fine. It would be so easy to simply say that the promise of the date was as much in jest as the promise of murder—if only she was truly certain that it was. If only she was truly certain about what she wants.

The other option would be to go for it. Take him out as in another date. Risk getting more involved, even if only slightly.

Somehow, both options terrify her more than they should.

When she finally comes out of Eist’s bedroom (tempted by the smell of food more than anything; much as she prides herself on always facing her problems head-on, falling back asleep and avoiding them was much more appealing), Calanthe is fully dressed and almost presentable-looking enough to leave. She grimaces as she tries to comb out her hair with her fingers, biting her lip when she hits a particularly nasty tangle and pulls too hard. “Fuck,” she hisses.

“Are you alright?”

“This’ll be a nightmare to get out,” she growls, looking accusatorily at her hair.

“Would you like to borrow some scissors?” Eist suggests jokingly. Calanthe glares. His expression shifts back into one of meaningful concern. “Would you like some help?” he asks seriously.

“I know just how good you are with those hands, but I wouldn’t exactly call them delicate.”

“You’ve only had a taste of what I can do with these hands.”

_ Fuck,  _ Calanthe thinks,  _ maybe I do want a second date. Or maybe skip the date. Get straight to the good parts. _

“And I wouldn’t exactly call what you’re doing delicate either.”

He has a point. In her frustration, she’s been tugging at her hair rather viciously. She huffs, dropping her hands to her sides. “Fine.”

Eist raises an eyebrow.

She sighs. “Yes, please, untangle my hair,” she mutters. “You’re the one responsible for getting it like this in the first place.”

Eist chuckles. “I’ll be right back.” He touches her arm lightly as he moves past her, and she feels her traitorous heart flutter a little.

The nerves kick in when he disappears in the direction of his bedroom and Calanthe realizes how vulnerable she is, standing alone in his unfamiliar kitchen, waiting. Eist is not a stranger, she reminds herself, and physically, she feels perfectly safe with him, always has. But emotionally, Calanthe hardly feels safe with anyone, and her mind doesn’t always know when to stop conflating the two. To set her mind a bit more at ease, she scans her surroundings, takes note of where the knives are.

When Eist emerges, he’s holding something in his hand. Fortunately, he moves close enough for Calanthe to recognize it for what it is before she can start to panic over the possibility of it being a weapon. (Not that she truly thinks it would be, but she’s trained herself to always be on high alert, and even if she could turn that off, she wouldn’t want to.)

It’s a comb.

“It’s clean,” he assures her once he’s standing right in front of her, holding out the comb so she can see for herself that there are no hairs caught in the teeth.

She nods and reaches out to take it, suddenly feeling a bit embarassed to have been so determinedly using her fingers. “I can—”

Eist holds the comb out of her reach. “You said something about the state of your hair being my fault.”

First date is definitely too soon to let someone comb her hair, hence Calanthe’s hesitation (running his hands through it to help undo the major tangles is one thing, not too much more familiar than all the times he ran his hands through her hair last night; letting him run through it with a proper comb is another thing entirely). But when he puts it like that—like he’s doing this to rectify a past mistake, like he’s wronged her and he’s trying to make it right—even if she is the one who originally insinuated as much, it’s hard to say no.

“Yes, it is,” she says instead, folding her arms and turning her head to give him better access to the absolute mess draped over her left shoulder.

He begins working the comb through her hair with unexpected gentleness and skill. She half expected him to try and attack her hair at the roots, but he starts at the ends and works his way up more slowly than Calanthe ever has the patience for when doing this herself; he holds her hair firmly with his free hand to keep the tension from pulling directly at her scalp. “Though I don’t remember hearing you complain about it last night,” he adds, and she’s grateful for the lighthearted teasing to keep her mind off its current track of  _ his hands, his hands can be gentle, they were rough last night because I wanted rough, demanded rough, but what if we fucked again and he was gentle, what would that feel like, same rough texture of his hands but touching me gently, fuck, now I’m turned on again, fuck, fuck, fuck. _

He’s objectively right—his hands felt wonderful in her hair last night, despite the resulting tangles, and the things he heard were quite the opposite of complaints. But she’d never admit to that, so she tells him, “Well, you’re hearing me complain about it now.”

She catches the way he smiles a bit at how she doesn’t deny the truth in his remark, far too self-satisfied—or maybe just the right amount of self-satisfied, seeing as he certainly earned the distinct lack of complaints about his hands in her hair (or anywhere else) up until now, and it isn’t as if he takes pleasure in seeing her struggle to straighten out the mess he made of it just because it’s evidence of how thoroughly he took her apart the night before; the memory seems to be plenty enough evidence for him; and it’s awfully caring of him to comb it for her, and somehow, she can’t think of any ulterior motive he could possibly have for doing that.

Her entire mind and body are screaming that this is far too intimate. That she should ask him to stop now before her heart beats out of her chest due to anxiety or something softer and far more terrifying (she can’t quite tell which). Inexplicably, she knows he’d stop without question if she asked.

Well,  _ almost  _ her entire mind and body are screaming for this to stop. But her scalp is silently grateful to be free of the rough tugging that’s inevitable whenever Calanthe tries to disentangle her own hair, and the logical part of her brain says that not only is it less painful to have her hair combed with his gentler touch, but he will also pull out less hair in the process.

Letting him continue is a strictly rational decision, she insists to the emotional side of her brain; it is selfish only because she wants less physical pain and more hair left once the tangles are out, not because she thinks this is nice, not because she enjoys the feeling of having someone else do this for her.

The comb catches on a bad knot, and he accidentally pulls a bit too hard. Calanthe winces slightly, sucking in a breath. Eist does the same when he notices her reaction, an apology fast on his lips.

It’s almost amusing, how his reaction mirrors hers, but he seems more affected despite her being the one to have her hair pulled. Calanthe bites the inside of her lip to keep herself from snorting out loud or telling him that it’s fine. Instead, she lets out a slow exhale and releases some of the tension in her body, signalling for him to continue.

Eist finishes combing her hair. While he does, she lets her eyes drift around the parts of his kitchen and living area she can see without turning her head, taking in every detail to distract herself from the look of concentration on his face that she definitely doesn’t find cute, not in the slightest.

He’s made breakfast—and it’s clear that he’s done more than simply grab something that was already prepared, even if Calanthe doesn’t recognize exactly what’s on her plate (Skelligen culinary tradition is apparently quite different from what she’s used to); even if she objects to the notion of eating something this heavy for breakfast and doesn’t eat much, she tries to show some appreciation for the sweetness in the gesture. She does feel appreciation—since when does Calanthe Fiona Riannon have _ feelings? _ —more than she can express when she’s this tired. At least she’s too tired to express any real objection either. She doesn’t think she could handle it if she hurt his feelings over something like this.

Since when does Calanthe Fiona Riannon  _ care about other people’s feelings? _

For the most part, they eat in silence. It wouldn’t be so unbearable if Calanthe wasn’t dreading the moment when Eist inevitably brings up the deal they made about her taking him out. She’s torn between the desire to just get the conversation over with, the slim hope that he’s forgotten, and the horrifying temptation to actually follow through and take him on another date—not just because she made a promise, but because somewhere, deep down, she actually wants to. (The temptation is purely physical, she tells herself. Purely sexual. Purely because her body is still pleasantly tingling in all the right places after last night. Purely because he’s distractingly shirtless. Not because she enjoys his company or his conversation or his stupid, awful wordplay— _ “Titillated?” he asked, hands on her breasts, when she insisted that no, she was not feeling seduced yet, a blatant lie considering how she was leaning into his touch, biting her lip to keep from crying out in pleasure _ —or anything like that.)

“I recall we made an agreement last night,” he says finally. His tone is playful, to her relief, just as it was when they made the agreement in question, and his lips are smiling. She tries not to focus on the way it shows the deep creases around his mouth, on the things that smile does to her, on the things that smile makes her want to do to him. But she can’t stop her mind from flipping wildly between potential ways she could get that smug look off his face (punch him, kiss him, stab him with her fork) and potential ways she could get out of this situation (stabbing him with her fork comes to mind again).

Suddenly very glad for the fact that she’s chewing and can’t be expected to say words right this moment, she responds with a vague hum.

Leaning in a bit closer, Eist asks, “Did I succeed in thoroughly seducing you?”

Calanthe snorts lightly. As if he doesn’t already know.

He continues looking at her expectantly.

With a roll of her eyes, she finishes chewing, swallows, clears her throat. “I told you,” she says, “if you managed to thoroughly seduce me, I wouldn’t be able to deny it.”

“Yes, but I’d like to hear you say it.”

His tone is still playful, and his continued smugness makes her burn with anger. And lust. Mostly anger, she tells herself.

“You already know.”

“Please?”

That catches her off guard.

Some of the smugness has disappeared; the question is half teasing, half yearning, full softness, and Calanthe caves.

“Yes,” she whispers.

“Yes, what?” he prompts, more teasing than yearning this time.

“Don’t push it.” The edge of her mouth curves up into a smile.

He laughs softly. “So, does this mean you’ll take me out in the date way?”

He’s asking a question. Not collecting a reward or something he thinks he’s owed as per the deal they half-jokingly made last night. Genuinely asking whether there’s a second date in their future.

Calanthe considers it. When she accepted his invitation, she didn’t plan for things to continue beyond one date ( _ maybe _ one night together) under any circumstances. Eist didn’t seem to expect anything more either. But then again, she didn’t expect the date to consist of anything more than some pleasant, friendly conversation—certainly not the wildly flirtatious banter that ensued. And, well… the sex was good. Really good.

Part of her brain is telling her to run. She’s already allowed for too much intimacy between them. But another part of her wonders,  _ what’s the worst that could happen?  _ Pavetta is still away in Temeria doing her summer program and won’t be back for another two weeks, so Calanthe has nothing besides work restricting her schedule until then. It would only be a short fling. She would keep a safe emotional distance, and run at the first inkling of trouble.

Gods, this would be so much easier if he was wearing a fucking shirt. His bare chest is distracting, more so since she knows how it feels, how it responds beneath her touch.

“Don’t feel obligated to say yes,” he says seriously. “I understand if you would rather leave this a one-time thing and never see me again. Although it was a rather amazing one time, and I would very much like to see you again.”

And that does it for Calanthe.

She narrows her eyes. “Do you take me for the kind of person who backs down on a deal?”

Her tone is low and seductive, and all he can do is shake his head.

“I ought to feel insulted,” she continues, extending her leg beneath the table so she can trail her foot gently up the inside of his calf, enjoying the hitch in his breath as she reaches his knee and starts moving up his thigh, “that you would imply there’s even a chance I wouldn’t keep my word, but I can tell your heart is in the right place, so I’ll let it slide.” She stares him down, eyes dark and burning with the same fire as last night. 

There’s no denying how deeply affected he is by her—the pace of his breathing quickens; he’s staring back at her with his mouth half open and his eyes half closed; overall, he looks utterly intoxicated, to her immense satisfaction.

“I will take you out, Eist Tuirseach. On a date. That’s a promise.”

Calanthe sets her foot back down on the floor, straightens her posture. “I should get going,” she says with a glance at the clock, tone back to normal. 

She stands up, straightens her shirt, pushes in her chair. Eist stands up immediately after her, grabbing both of their plates before the thought can even cross her mind to help with the dishes. Without the table between them obscuring her view, she can see even more of his bare torso, and she has to bite down hard on the inside of her lip to stop herself from reacting.  _ He couldn’t have put on a fucking shirt, could he?  _ she wonders, only mildly irritated.

“Thank you,” she says, trying to assume the formal and professional demeanor she puts on for business interactions (it’s hard with him; even when their relationship was a business one, before he asked her out, they had settled into something much more comfortable and casual), “for the—” she glances at the plates in his hands, brow furrowing.

“Breakfast?”

“Mm. I fundamentally disagree with you on what constitutes breakfast, but it was good.”

He chuckles.

“I’ll call you.”

“I shall eagerly await your call.”

  
There’s a faint smile playing at his lips, and she has to tear her eyes away from him and force herself not to look back as she heads out the door, lest any stupid thoughts take too firm a hold in her mind, like the urge to drag him back to bed for another round, or the quiet voice in her head saying,  _ I could get used to this. _

**Author's Note:**

> scream at me in the comments or on [tumblr](https://firesofthestars.tumblr.com)!! please...


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